


Hope Dies Last

by tinawiththeglasses



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Grief, Hope, Loss, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, frogwares games, frogwares holmes, frogwares sherlock holmes, game holmes, game!holmes, sherlock holmes games, the testament of sherlock holmes - Freeform, ttosh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinawiththeglasses/pseuds/tinawiththeglasses
Summary: A fic following the events of the Frogwares game "The Testament of Sherlock Holmes", written as part of an exchange with the amazing ApprenticeofDoyle.Overcome by grief and doubt, Watson struggles to restore his belief in the Great Detective in order to clear his name in good conscience. Meanwhile a desperate Holmes threatens to lose control over himself and a case of international importance.However, like so often in life, hope dies last.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. A Shadow of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ApprenticeofDoyle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApprenticeofDoyle/gifts).



> Allow me to apologise in advance for the quality of this first chapter. It's the best I could do in my current mental state. Later chapters will undergo the usual levels of quality control.
> 
> Let me take this opportunity to thank ApprenticeofDoyle for coming up with the idea for this little exchange! <3 And thank you for being such a good friend! I hope this story manages to live up to your hopes just a little!
> 
> For all of you who haven't played the game:
> 
> ***** WARNING MAJOR SPOILERS AHEAD********

I woke up drenched in cold sweat. I had jolted upright in an attempt to escape my demons- in vain. They chose to linger; to haunt and mock me in the shapes of those who had lost their lives in this dreadful affair.  
For a moment, my mind, riddled with grief and anxiety, tricked me into believing there were sounds coming from the adjoining room. It took some effort not to jump to my feet and burst through the door to Holmes' room.  
Too often had I scrambled into his chamber in the middle of the night, frantically calling his name, foolishly hoping to find him standing there, smiling, or rolling his eyes at my emotional entrance- only to be met with a ghostly emptiness, which reflected the state of my sinking heart.  
Part of me hoped, that all of this was nothing more than another night-terror, and that I would awake one day to be greeted by the scent of his tobacco seeping in from the living-room.  
But no...it was impossible. I had seen him pull the trigger. I had felt for his pulse, knelt by his lifeless body, and stained my clothes with his blood. There was no other explanation. My best friend, Sherlock Holmes was dead- the days of his great adventures numbered once and for all, and it was up to me to bury him.  
Empty and half-paralysed I gazed out the window. The city was not quite awake. Only the occasional rattle of a bus, or hurried steps in the street beneath betrayed the first signs of life- workers, staff, and lantern lighters. It had been Holmes' favourite time of day.  
How often had I crept out of my room at ungodly hours, plagued by dreams about the war, and about past cases (the hunt for Jack the Ripper, and the nightmarish case of The Awakened being the most common features of such nightly hauntings), only to find my friend standing by the bay window with a tranquil expression, smoking his favourite pipe.  
I could picture him with painful vivacity. The pale moonlight outlining his slender body complimented by his favourite red morning gown, and the first pink rays of sunshine softening his sharp features.  
He would never turn around to greet me, but I could read quiet joy in the smile reflected in the glass. My eyes went searching for those of his mirror-image, wondering, part of me even hoping he might do the same.  
On most mornings we would get lost in the companionable silence between us until the sun brought our great city to life, but on some, rare occasions, my friend would invite me to join him with a gentle "The rocking chair is at your disposal, dear fellow."

How long I sat staring I do not know. But it is safe to say that I had spent much longer, wallowing in tristesse, had it not been for Mrs. Hudson knocking on my door to let me know breakfast was ready.  
I could not bear the thought of food. My heart and stomach were still weighing too heavily on my disposition.  
Reluctantly I dressed myself. By the time I emerged from my room the sadness had been overshadowed by numbness. Even the sight of Holmes' beloved analysis table failed to provoke the slightest emotion. It only called to memory a distant echo of what must have been love and loss.  
I placed my hand on his chair with a sigh. If I could only understand.  
There came a faint whining noise from the window, and I looked up to find our dog Toby resting his head on his paws.  
"I understand you, Toby. We are in the same position, aren't we? Both loyal companions who were left behind, heartbroken and unable to grasp the meaning of it all."  
I could not help but smile at him. His presence was comforting.  
"He loved you as much as you love him...which is something we do not have in common, I'm afraid..." I chuckled bitterly as my thoughts clouded again. My features followed suit. "He could never shake your trust...I wonder...does that make you a better friend?"  
It should be abundantly clear by now, how I really felt about Holmes.  
While our friendship was genuine, there was more to it on my side. I was- or at least had been, terribly in love with my friend. Years of solving puzzles together had produced an intimate bond between us.  
Of course, I had always been certain my love for him would have to remain a well-kept secret. Holmes was married to his work, and neither woman nor man could change that. All in all, I was quite content with serving as his guard and conductor of light. As long as he allowed me to accompany him on his cases, I was happy. But then, everything changed. Why had he refused to confide in me? If none of those rumours were true, why had he made no attempt at all in convincing me of it? Of course there was only one reason. If he hadn't tried to prove his innocence, most likely because there was nothing to prove.  
My heart hardened at the thought- the pain amplified by my affection for Holmes. All my trust, wasted. All my admiration misplaced. What a fool I had been. What a lovesick fool...

By the time I had dressed for the funeral, the unanswered questions brewed into a fresh wave of anger. The constant change in my emotions proved to be rather exhausting. My lack of sleep only adding to it. I acknowledged the exasperation towards my friend with no little remorse.  
Upon stepping out of 221b, I realised the weather quite befitted the occasion. Dark and heavy clouds covered the sky. An autumnal thunderstorm was brewing in the distance, and the trees were shedding their leaves in mourning for the Great Detective.  
No force of nature could stop me from paying my final respects to that fascinating man.  
I hardly know what I expected after all I had learned about him- but it had never occurred to me to find the graveyard completely deserted. None of his self-proclaimed "admirers" had come to bid him adieu. Neither had those who owed their lives and careers to my friend- nor his enemies. Such was the state of his reputation.  
There was only the grave digger, and I.  
My shoulders sank in disappointment.  
"Why did it have to come to this, Holmes?" asked quietly. "All those years of friendship, and respect... of trust! Everything that we went through together..."  
My body ached at the memories forcing themself into my head all at once. I wished I could have cried; could have shed as much as a single tear, but found myself unable to. All I could do was shake my head slowly, and continue my monologue. Those final words weighed like anchors on my chest, dragging me further down into the dark abyss of eternal uncertainty. I needed to bury them along with Holmes.  
"...and you deceived me all along. Damn you! I wish I had seen through all of your lies! But now...it is over. It is all over."  
At last, my voice broke and I gestured for the grave digger to lower the coffin. Indeed. It was over. I had said all I needed to say. Now, it was time to go.

I knew, the moment I stepped through the door that staying at Baker Street would not be an option. Holmes' scent lingered in our rooms- his soap and cold tobacco. Of course, I had not noticed before. It was, after all, the smell of home. How was I supposed to come to terms with past events when even the air reminded me of him? How then, was I supposed to forgive?  
The soul-crushing emptiness of our living room caught me off-guard once more. His ghost seemed to idle between the window and table. A shiver ran down my spine.  
"Damn you..." I muttered again.  
Mrs. Hudson had done her best to restore order to the chaos caused by the police after Holmes' disappearance following the incident at the Mill- however a brief glance was enough to tell me some things were not placed correctly. Reluctantly I picked up a book from his desk. It was a treatise on light spectra in chemistry- something I could never begin to understand.  
Holmes' voice echoed in my mind, giving a disgruntled sigh followed by a brief but ever so polite "Would you please put this book away for me, Watson? There's a good fellow."  
Of course, I obeyed. He would have wanted it.

Minutes turned into hours as I minutely put all of Holmes' stray belongings back into their rightful place.  
Everything but one item which I had carefully overlooked- half by mistake and half by design.  
It was one of Holmes' makeup brushes which had somehow found its way underneath the couch.  
Mrs. Hudson must have missed it. I couldn't blame her. The poor lady must have been in a state of shock similar to my own.  
I examined the brush in my hand. The hairs on my neck stood upright at the thought of entering his room. It was the one place I least wanted to go.  
A deep breath helped to steel my nerves.  
"Courage, John!" I told myself and reached for the door handle.  
My hand stopped at the last second, as if blocked by some invisible force. It all played out in my head once again with overpowering force.  
A noise had alerted me. I had rushed over to speak with him- to demand answers once and for all. Why I thought my revolver would help me in the pursuit of the truth was a mystery to me. To Sherlock Holmes a weapon was perhaps the least convincing argument.  
Given the state of affairs I should have known I was going to be the one looking down the barrel of a gun instead.  
Driven by sheer panic, I fired at the man whom I had considered my most intimate friend for so long. I had feared for my life as my gun failed again and again. My heart pounded faster in my chest with every quiet click. He must have foreseen my reaction and taken the bullets from my revolver. Terrified I dropped my weapon. Was he really prepared to shoot me? I could not say.  
Time froze as we stared into each others eyes. Aeons could have passed without either of us moving, until, at last, Holmes broke the spell by putting his own gun against his head and pulling the trigger.  
My return to the present was so abrupt and violent the brush slipped out of my hand.  
I stooped to pick it up with shaking hands. An invisible barrier had appeared between myself and Holmes' door. I reminded myself I could take as long as I needed, which seemed to ease my agitation. Nonetheless, reaching out for the knob again cost me all that was left of my strength.  
Another deep breath was needed before I could bring myself to turn it.

The window was wide open, but his scent had prevailed. I wondered if it would linger there forever, just like a part of his spirit had remained by his desk.  
My body forced my eyes shut at the sight of the carpet. No doubt Mrs. Hudson had ordered someone to have it taken away and cleaned- if not replaced. But for now, Holmes' blood still marked the spot where he had decided to take fate into his own hands.  
"My god, Holmes..." my words were but a whisper.  
Quickly, I replaced the brush. To my great dismay I found a few other things Mrs. Hudson had misplaced.  
What would my friend have inferred from the fact I knew the correct place for all of his belongings by heart? Hopefully not the correct ones. I cannot imagine how he would have reacted, had he managed to get a look at my heart, rather than my mind for once. Would he have made fun of me? Would he have asked me to leave? Would HE have left?  
It didn't matter now. In fact, I was beginning to feel nothing really did.  
When I finally closed the dreaded door again, it was with bowed head and some hesitation. Who knew when or if I would return? In case I did not, at least I would be able to leave, knowing I had done all I could for the moment.

The evening found me in a mediocre hotel room near Holborn Viaduct. I was glad to be out of Baker Street. The distance, albeit not a great one, was enough to free my mind to some extent, and take off part of the weight which had accumulated on my shoulders throughout all of this sorry affair. I even managed to take pen to paper, hoping that writing an account of what had happened might help me sleep.  
It only intensified my dreams that night, as my hapless brain attempted to answer impossible questions. Nothing made sense from the very start! How did the mysterious theft of the Samoan necklace lead to Holmes committing murder and suicide? What had he hoped to gain by releasing one of England's most dangerous criminals from prison?  
The morning came, and the sun rose. Drenched in sweat, and eyes reddened with involuntary tears I made my final decision: I needed explanations or I would go mad. Another day of going between disdain and pity for my friend, and I was certain to lose my mind. Rather than spending another sleepless night, wondering what might have happened; perhaps tortured with crippling uncertainty and unable to trust any human soul again until the end of my days, I needed to go and find out for myself. Above all, I needed to know whether Sherlock Holmes was innocent.


	2. A Starting-point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is........ just a tad bit longer :')
> 
> Again, SPOILER ALERT to those who haven't played the game!

I have often tried to pinpoint the beginning of our misery. Now I am in possession of all the facts, it is safe to say that it was the moment Baynes set foot in our lodgings. Therefore this must serve as a starting point for my narrative- for, unlike Watson, I prefer to tell stories in their right order.  
I had hardly left my room that morning, preoccupied with the Bishop's urgent telegram, when my friend forced that preposterous article upon me. I gave in, even finding it rather amusing, but generally considered it to be of poor penmanship and not worth my time.  
My work is often met with sensation-seeking scepticism, especially within the realms of tabloid papers, which increases exponentially as my name becomes more widely known. I therefore chose not to pay any mind to the subject, and made no attempt at hiding this sentiment. Like so often, the good doctor had managed to get himself worked up over something so trivial as my reputation.  
He believes it annoys me, when really his need to defend me is quite endearing.  
I had heard the Inspector the moment Mrs. Hudson opened the door for him. His entrance gave the most welcome opportunity to divert Watson's attention.  
A sidelong glance at the mantelpiece told me there was no time to be lost. It was then I first noted something was...off.  
Admittedly, he had always struck me as rather unlikable, and a little too sure of himself; both traits which are certain to produce a confession in some way or another. Arrogance can be intimidating, after all. He was clearly trying to produce the same effect on me. A fact which was very suggestive, if not alarming.  
He entered, accompanied by two uniformed policemen as if to make an arrest. His tie was done with so much effort, and his back was so forcibly straightened, it made him appear entirely artificial. So much so, I half-expected him to offer to read our fortunes for twopence. It was rather unsurprising to hear his tone matched his posture when he greeted us.  
"Ah, Mr. Holmes...how did you know I was here?" The sentence resembled an actor who possessed the emotional range of a log of firewood.  
My reply was the usual, polite summary of my deductions and an, I'm afraid to say, not entirely serious, welcome. There could be only one reason for his visit.  
"Have you read that rag?" Baynes said, pointing at the newspaper on the table. At least he addressed the matter at hand right away.  
As did Watson- only that his point was rather far removed from mine.  
"Inspector, can you explain this slander?!" he blurted out. I would have risked a smile at his eagerness, had we not been so pressed for time. "Has the necklace of the Samoas really been replaced by a fake?"  
"I don't know how the reporter got hold of the information, but it's true...about the necklace, of course. I wouldn't permit myself to question the integrity of Mr. Holmes."  
Had I been aware of the true meaning of his words, I would have been able to hear the underlying gratification in them. It is no use dwelling on what could have been however. Ones time is better employed considering what has been, and what can be learned from it. I have done just that, and learned never to underestimate my Watson, for, had I payed more attention to his concerns about Farley's slander, both of us would have been spared a great deal of pain. But as it stood, I made the mistake of simply writing off his remark as superficial politeness.  
My friend, however, refused to let go of the subject once again. A discussion erupted, over who might be to blame for the unjust mistreatment of my name, during which my eyes kept darting demonstratively at the clock.  
At last, I was able to insert myself back into the conversation before Watson was could grab his coat and pay another, less professional visit to the Marquess.  
"It is unnecessary. Such allegations collapse on their own- like one of Mrs. Hudson's soufflés. Let us leave the police to solve this problem and turn our attention to the matters in hand." I hoped to convey my disinterest and impatience.  
Baynes finally saw sense. It did not earn him my gratitude, but I did spare him a retort for addressing me by my last name only. That is a privilege reserved only for my friends, and a friend he was certainly not.  
Begrudgingly, I inquired after the Marchioness, to gain an idea of the consequences of this crime.  
Watson turned to me before I could even think of taking another step towards the necklace.  
"Holmes, forgive me for insisting, but don't you want to examine the fake jewellery?"  
I had tried hard not to look at him. I could never withstand the kindness of those hazel eyes, so I folded my hands in front of my chest in protest and stared defiantly at the closet across the room.  
"Watson, I have an appointment, and it is out of the question that I arrive late."  
"It will only take you a couple of minutes! You really must quell the suspicions put forward in this appalling article!"  
Of course, I had turned my head to meet his gaze. The genuine concern for my wellbeing was impossible to ignore.  
I gave in wearily. "Very well."  
The Inspector handed me the box. One glance was enough to tell me everything I needed to know.  
One pearl was too small, another a different culour, and several of poor quality. The necklace was not merely "a fake", as Watson had put it, but a laughable one too.  
"This is nothing but a vulgar copy." I concluded. "And at a glance it would appear that the forger has intended for it to be seen as such."  
"How could we have been fooled by such a blatant imitation? I don't understand." Interjected Baynes.  
"Yes, how is it possible?!" Watson cried in agreement. "Holmes, do you have a theory about this?"  
I shook my head. I had made no attempt at producing one. "I have absolutely no idea. You insisted I examine the necklace, and I have done so." My were eyes fixed on Baynes'. "Now it is important that I keep my appointment. I am sure, Inspector, that you will throw some light on this affair."  
The idea of simply turning on my heel and leaving them standing there was tempting, but I resisted.  
Without taking my eyes off of the policeman, I continued a little more sharply than I had truly intended, "You may accompany me, Watson, if you care to do so."  
Finally, we were left in peace.

I returned to my room as soon as Baynes was gone, in order to fetch my hat and coat. Although my mood was continually blackening, not aided by my colleague's endless tirade of dull questions, his presence comforted me.  
"You mentioned a Bishop, didn't you? Are we going to his home?" I could feel his eyes on my back as I changed.  
"Yes, the Bishop of Knightsbridge. I put his address on our map of London, on my desk. Would you get it for me, please?" I waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the living-room.  
There were footsteps, followed by the familiar "I have found your map!"  
Hardly ten minutes passed before we were on our way.

The first three minutes of our journey were uncomfortable at best. I was aware there was something on Watson's mind, but uncertain whether to address it or to wait if he would do so by himself.  
The latter proved to be the right choice. He stopped fidgeting with the map, sighed, then lifted his head to look at me.  
"Why did you act so hostile toward Baynes, Holmes?"  
Ah, yes. One of Watson's famous retorts.  
I tilted my head. "I apologise, dear fellow. You are right..."  
"I am glad-"  
"We should have offered him tea and biscuits."  
"Holmes! The man is only trying to clear your name!"  
I must have shot him a glare in the heat of the moment, for his eyes widened in surprise.  
"And I am trying to do my work. How often must I say that I am running late for an appointment before being listened to?"  
My friend said nothing in return. I had hurt him. My heart sank at the sight. He made me feel vulnerable, and I detested the idea.  
"I...am sorry, dear friend. But I examined the necklace and have given my statement. My reputation is now in the-" I could stop myself before the word "capable" could escape me. He would not have believed me, had I used it. "-in the hands of Scotland Yard."  
"You are right....but do at least try to be more polite next time."  
"I have tried, Watson. Now, if you don't mind, I believe I left my cigarettes at home, and all this excitement has cost me my morning pipe."  
He shook his head, but reached into his waistcoat pocket regardless.  
"You are incorrigible, Holmes."  
Every second, from the moment he placed the cigarette between my lips, to my first drag before he let go offered much-needed relief. He knew nothing of my disposition. Perhaps it was for the better.  
"On what business are we going to the Bishop?" Watson continued before I could lose myself in my thoughts any further.  
"He asked me to authenticate a certain document. If my cases continue down this line, I should consider a change in career."  
"But what on earth can it be?"  
"That I cannot tell you, but we shall soon find out. The Bishop is afraid of something, therefore it must be important."  
I took another drag from my cigarette. Finally, he was asking the interesting questions.

I pricked up my ears at the sound of footsteps echoing toward us, down the stone corridor.  
The length of his stride at the approaching speed told me a man was walking towards us- light in build, and taller than myself. Those deductions were confirmed the next instant, when a young cleric appeared around the corner, obviously distressed. He was a Reverend, in his thirties, and a man who liked to bend the rules to fit his own narrative- so much I could learn just by looking at him.  
Watson lifted his hands in an appeasing manner, ready to explain who we were. I put a hand on his chest to stop him. It was vital he should speak before us.  
"The police? Already? How did you know?"  
The statement alone would have been enough to alarm me, however the smell of burnt flesh mixed with blood solidified my concerns.  
"May we see the Bishop of Knightsbridge?"  
"Yes, yes of course...but..come in." the Reverend stepped aside. A moment's relief washed over me, allowing me to hope that for once my conclusions were faulty. Well, it is justified to say that, in some way, they were- in that the sight which presented itself to us was much worse than anything I had seen throughout nearly two decades in my profession.  
Suffice it to say I felt for the man who had found him.  
"What has happened, Reverend?" compassion was needed, if I was to gain a statement.  
"I...I don't know! It was last night, I think...it must have been...I only just arrived, and I have made this macabre discovery! My God! How horrible..." he paused and swirled round to look at us. The haze of shock lifting from his thoughts, if only for the briefest of moments. "I haven't called anyone, how did you know that?" he shook his head and continued his somewhat incoherent but invaluable statement.  
"The poor Bishop...he was not only killed, but horribly mutilated! He was such a good man...how could anyone be so brutal? Look at him, he's barely recognisable! How could any of God's children be responsible for something like...like that?"  
His voice had begun to crack towards the end of the sentence. I needed to direct his attention back to the facts in order to learn as much as I could.  
"They were evidently unworthy children, Reverend. Now do please try to calm yourself and focus, because we will need your assistance. Do you have any idea as to the motive behind this?"  
The cleric turned to look at us. My plan had worked.  
"I haven't had the time to do an inventory, but nothing appears to be stolen. Besides, his Excellency didn't own anything of great value."  
It was then a slip of the tongue almost compromised the investigation. Regrettably, I am not exempt from such errors, as the further progress of this account will prove.  
The words "Note this down, doctor", came so naturally to me, I could do nothing to prevent them.  
Unsurprisingly the Reverend grew suspicious at this.  
"Doctor? But...you arten't the police?" he looked at us with fear in his eyes. I could hardly fault him for it.  
Honesty seemed the best option on our side. My name evokes trust more often than it turns people away. I have often used this to my advantage.  
"No, Reverend. I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson. We hare here at the request of the Bishop."  
"What? In that case, I must ask you to leave. I must get in touch with the authorities without further delay!"  
I was surprised, yet glad Watson hadn't jumped at the opportunity to defend my status. It allowed me to do so myself.  
"Reverend, when the Inspectors of Scotland Yard find themselves at a dead end, which they quite often do, I assure you, then they turn to me. If you will allow us to continue our investigation, then you shall see justice done."  
"Out of the question! I don't even know you! I am calling the police, whether you like it or not!"  
The cleric defiantly straightened his back, but his attempt at establishing dominance was rather poor.  
Baynes' visit had thoroughly strained my patience- now it was wearing thin.  
I had never doubted the importance of this case, and I would not let it go for worlds- especially now my client had met so gruesome an end. Bringing the police into the matter would mean bringing in Baynes. No, I had to gather as much information as possible on my own.  
The priest took a step towards the door but I blocked his way and glared at him.  
"It would be better for everyone, Reverend, if you kept your temper..."  
That put an end to his protests, and he stepped aside, pulling a rosary from his cassock.  
I turned to Watson, who was scribbling in his notebook. He had recently come up with some sort of system to keep track of my deductions. It seemed to be quite efficient. His efforts were commendable, and I informed him of it. As a result of which he raised his notebook, evidently trying to hide his blush from me. I, in turn, faced the other way to conceal a smile.

My friend had come to stand beside me as I knelt down to examine the body more closely. He knew he was needed whenever medical matters were concerned.  
No part of the Bishop's body had been spared the torture. I have taken the liberty of borrowing Watson's notes:  
Feet: severely burned – blackened and blistered – tied above the ankles  
Arms: Bite marks?? Strange degeneration around wounds – Eaten alive??  
Fingers: Bent in impossible angles – bones crushed by great force  
Stomach: A strange set of old wounds and bruising around the entire abdomen – self-inflicted?  
Chest: Thin but deep lacerations to the skin – surgical instruments?  
Head: Contorted features – mouth covered in blood – Holmes pointed out skin between his teeth

I got to my feet again to have another look at the scene as a whole.  
“Something is missing here...” while I had really muttered it to myself, Watson responded anyway. It was not an uncommon occurrence.  
“Really? And what might that be?”  
The answer struck me at once. I suppose I have to thank him for that.  
“His shoes! Watson, his shoes are missing!” The familiar excitement of the chase finally got hold of me. It made my entire body tingle with electricity.  
My eyes scanned the area for anything of importance I might have missed, and detected a severed finger on the floor, next to the chair where the Bishop was tied up. A rather strange discovery, given the fact the victim, despite all of his wounds, still possessed all ten of his. I took it before the Reverend could notice and start protesting again.  
Next, I directed my attention to the desk, which was also covered in blood. It had nothing to offer except for a bottle of Whiskey and a paperweight. Evidently, the murderers had used the former to steady their nerves, and the latter to break the Bishop's fingers.  
From where I was standing, I could see another piece of broken glass glistening on the floor.  
A strong scent of chemicals clung to it, but I was unable to identity the mixture solely based on that. It would have to be analysed in Baker Street.  
The cupboard next to the desk proved to be of interest, as it contained several devices for self-mortification, and a safe which the Reverend refused to open, further adding to my vexation.  
I then turned my attention to the footprints near the exit. Luckily I could stop my colleague from trampling right over them.  
“Watch where you're putting your feet, Watson! Have you noticed these prints upon the ground?”  
“Well, yes of course! Those muddy marks...”  
I grinned and pulled a magnifying glass from my coat, cleaning it on my sleeve.  
“See here, Watson, footprints often provide more vital information than the very best of informants.”  
“Yes, if you know how to make them talk, that is.”  
I went to my knees again, my smile turning into a smirk.  
“It's child's play Watson. We will begin by eliminating the contaminating prints: ours, and that of the Reverend-” I threw a quick glance over my shoulder. “-who was so impatient to call the police. Now, what is left?” I put aside my magnifying glass and measuring tape to better be able to explain the prints to Watson, who had joined me on the floor. He was regarding the ground with obvious confusion and interest, pen ready to note down any vital information.  
“Look here- this print was made by well-worn boots with an odd pattern on the soles. They are size 9. I have taken a small fragment of stone from them. Who knows what it might tell us. Those on the other hand, are hobnail boots, like those worn by labourers.”  
Watson hummed knowingly.  
“But these prints were made by two different men, as one pair is size 9, whereas the other is half a size larger.”  
“I can still follow you, Holmes.”  
“Good. The fourth and final pair, however, appears rather out of place. While they too are size 9, they are of a better quality and certainly too expensive for our killers. If you take a look at the direction of those prints, you will notice, that the smaller hobnail boots entered but did not leave. The expensive pair, however, left without having entered. Now, what do you make of that?”  
My friend's eyes wandered from the prints, to the Bishop, and eventually to meet mine.  
“You said the Bishop's shoes were missing, so perhaps one of his murderers took them?”  
I smiled again, this time with pride. “Elementary! You surpass yourself today, dear fellow. We now know there were three men involved in this gruesome torture- AND we know why his shoes are missing.”  
“But what does it all mean, Holmes? I can make neither head nor tail of the situation...espcially this unnecessary brutality.”  
“Look at your notes, Watson. It is perfectly clear. The object of this crime could not have been wanton burglary, but to acquire something specific. The Bishop was tortured, but resisted as he was accustomed to pain. As a result, they killed him, took his shoes, and left- no doubt to report their failure. Since the veranda has remained locked and unharmed, we can now deduce, that whatever it was they were looking for, is still in the safe- which they were unable to open.” I turned to the cleric. “Reverend, I shall ask you one more time to open the chest. The item they were looking for must still be inside. It is unlikely that they will let the matter rest- meaning they will return to finish what they started.”  
“And I am telling you that the chest is locked and shall remain so.”  
What little had been left of my patience evaporated at once. My eyes narrowed at his childish defiance. He wanted the police, so he should have them- but not before I had finished my investigation.  
“Very well...we have reached an impasse. You are a stubborn man, Reverend.” I continued, still glaring at my bis-á-vis “Watson, escort this man to the police station, and return with Inspector Baynes. Baynes and no-one else. I shall wait for you here.”

So they left without delay. The cleric mumbled curses under his breath as they walked away. At least the sentiment was mutual.  
The sudden quiet of my surroundings greatly helped in easing my agitation. Time was of the essence, but I was confident now nothing stood in the way of efficiency.  
I collected a scalpel from a side table and pocketed it with the rest of the evidence. Watson had been right.  
Now for the safe. The lock was so complex it was impossible to break into it, therefore I had no choice but to open it legitimately. It shall serve as a reminder to always pack my tools- whatever the occasion.  
The Bishop's room held nothing of interest, which prompted me to move on to the veranda.  
This lock proved rather easy to pick, as a needle from the dead man's Cilice opened the door almost instantaneously.  
Watson would perhaps describe the room as “tranquil and flooded with warm light”, but such poetic descriptions, as charming as they may be, are irrelevant to me. Instead, I focused on anything out of the ordinary. Two things in particular stood out from the rest of the room:  
One large ink stain on the rug on the floor, located on the opposite side of a small desk, and a piece of cloth jutting out from behind the same.  
I removed the rug, and found a corresponding stain on the floor by the desk. The rest was child's play. The cloth had been used to hide a large chess piece- a knight, to be exact. The checkered tiles lent themselves perfectly to be used as a board. A square of 5x5 tiles had been outlined with charcoal. It was just large enough to be covered entirely by the rug.  
I suppose it would have been merely a matter of time until the Bishop would have discovered his Reverend's secret.  
One by one I eliminated the possible tiles in my mind, until only seven possible stones remained- the third of which finally gave way to my touch.  
The stone had covered several letters. Terribly fanciful love letters from a woman to the cleric. Most of them mentioned marriage and children. This was vital knowledge.  
Buried beneath those letters, lay a mold of wax. Judging by its shape it had been used to copy a key. Interersting.

I had only been able to put the rug back where it belonged when two sets of familiar footsteps echoed down the corridor once again.  
“Ah, Watson! You were gone a terribly long time.” I deliberately overlooked the other man. “And Inspector Baynes isn't with you?”  
“I'm afraid not, Holmes. We were unable to find him.”  
I was perfectly aware of that.  
“Doctor Watson wold not allow me to contact anyone else! What manners! I am a man of the church!” the other man whined.  
I had no intention of reacting to this show of self-pity. “My dear Reverend...I notice that you are a chess-lover...I trust you will excuse me, but I can never resist the appeal of an unfinished game.”  
His eyes darted in my direction. Confusion was clearly written across his face. “So? What do you want now?”  
“As you might have guessed, resolving your small chess-problem allowed me to discover some very interesting letters...”  
Finally, his facade began to crumble. He took off his hat and slowly walked towards the stained-glass windows.  
“Why hide them here and run the risk of the Bishop finding them?”  
His hands tightened around his had.  
“Where else could I have hidden them? My own chambers offer no cover. I knew, however, that his Excellency- may he rest in peace- knew nothing about chess, and would not notice my game.”  
“Reverend, I must ask you once again to give me the key to the Bishop's chest. I know you are in possession of a copy.”  
He turned round and met my eyes with a glare. “Out of the question!”  
I averse of the idea of gaining my information by causing harm- it is a tactic reserved for the official police- however, I am equally aware that desperate times require desperate means. I had exhausted every other way of opening the chest, yet he still refused. Now I had no choice but to fall back on my last resort: Blackmail.  
“I am a gentleman, and it would distress me to be obliged to pass this correspondence across to your superiors...”  
My friend's surprise and disappointment were evident. Guilt gnawed on my conscience, but I was unable to show it, as it would mean allowing the Reverend to gain the upper hand.  
I could not afford such defeat- not for my client's sake.  
Barely could I withhold a sigh of relief when the cleric finally gave in. He scowled, but took the key from his pocket and threw it across at me.  
“You say you are a gentleman, but I hear nothing but the words of a blackmailer. Just...just open it and leave.”  
“Thank you, Reverend. Now we are finally on speaking terms, I would like to ask one more question.”  
“Alight. Fine. What else do you need?”  
“Simply this: What are you able to tell us about the Bishop's final days? Did he receive any visitors? Did he appear distressed?”  
“His nephew came to visit him yesterday at his Excellency's request. I found this a little peculiar, as the young man very rarely visits. Both of them seemed agitated when he left. I asked his Excellency what was the matter, but he simply told me not to worry as it was a family matter.”  
“Hm, interesting. Were they on bad terms?”  
“No. His scare visits were rather a consequence of his work. The young man is employed within the Royal Archives, which leaves him with little spare time.”  
“Thank you, Reverend, that would be everything.”  
“Now I have answered all your questions, will you allow me to call the authorities?”  
“I'm afraid I cannot do that. Not just yet. Come, Watson, it is time to open the safe. I am eager to discover what remarkable treasure could justify such an act of barbarity.”  
It is one of the first rules of theatre to proclaim loudly what one is doing or holding, so even those at the far back of the hall can understand the play, even though they can hardly see the actors from their places.  
This rule has become quite dear to me, as it is very useful to make others think something which might deviate from reality.  
“Strange...nothing important appears to be locked up here...”  
“See? I was telling the truth!” he blurted out. “That is quite enough. This time you won't stop me!”  
And with that, the Reverend broke into a sprint straight for the door. I no longer cared, as I had found what I had searched for- Watson however, was another matter. As long as the extent of the danger we were facing was unknown to me, I had to make certain he knew as little about the whole affair as possible. I sent him chasing after the wayward cleric in order to finish my work discreetly, but he returned sooner than I had anticipated- out of breath and clearly upset. Not a minute was to be lost, as the police were likely to arrive any moment.  
“He's...he's escaped...I hope your motivations... are founded, Holmes. I don't much like skirting around the edges of the law like this.”  
“It is annoying. Now let's leave without delay.”

Watson and I did not exchange another word until we were back in our quarters in Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had served tea, which we gladly accepted as a remedy for our frayed nerves.  
I would have needed something stronger, but was afraid it would give me away.  
Betraying weakness would invariably lead to questions- questions he was undoubtedly asking himself already, but had no reason to say aloud. As much I would have loved to lay every inch of ,y soul before him, I could not do it- not with a case of this magnitude.  
Someday, perhaps, if I allowed myself to dream- but not now.  
So we sat in silence, sipping our teas until my friend cleared his throat.  
“Holmes?”  
“Watson?”  
“You knew we wouldn't find Baynes at the station, didn't you?”  
“I had strong reasons to assume it, yes.”  
“Then why did you ask me to send for him?”  
I raised my eyebrows at him. “Was it not obvious?”  
“Ah, I see. You were looking for something to use against the Reverend.”  
“Not quite. I was trying to break force the chest. It was only chance which put me in possession of those letters.”  
“But...” he hesitated. “...did you really have to blackmail him?”  
“I am afraid he left me no choice. The end justifies the means, dear fellow. Now, if you will excuse me, I must prepare some chemicals I need to analyse today's evidence.”  
“Of course, Holmes...”  
My heart sank again as I walked away. This was the day our misery began, as it was the day Dr. Watson, the most loyal man in England, began to lose his faith in me.


End file.
